I had reach
by darkangel447
Summary: 'Ours was never a soft love. There was never anything tender or romantic about us. It was never easy.' - They aren't in love. They aren't falling for each other. They aren't perfect.  Borderline T/Tplus for suggestive themes. One-Shot


Hey hey!

Firstly I would like to apologise about the major writing delay with my other fic. Illness, moving house and my muse running off with the milkman have had some negative effects on my writing. However, I will try and get something out as soon as inspiration returns.

This lil' thing came to me after a mix of Eminem feat. Rihanna, Waking the Dead and a conversation about how love is never easy. With the Miranda/Shepard(M) pairing, everyone usually goes on about how 'Shepard breaks down her walls/they were meant to be together' and I wanted to explore something different. I think I've done that here (at least I hope I have). I might continue this, I might not, so either way, please let me know what you think. I also wanted to explore the use of first person: I usually violently dislike anything with 'I' in it, so it was an exercise in doing something I don't enjoy. This has only had one proof read so any mistakes are totally my fault. Hope you enjoy it.

**Disclaimer** - All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story - i.e. **darkangel447**. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers - **Bioware and E.A** - of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>Ours was never a soft love. There was never anything tender or romantic about us. It was never easy.<p>

It was a cliche really. Fire and ice; unbridled passion and clinical skill. We were both after release, but sought it in different ways.

It started after our first fight; I don't even remember what it was about. We were both yelling, shouting each other down, convinced our own opinion was the right one, the one that mattered. She tried to leave, I grabbed her arm: she slapped me, I punched a wall.

There was anger on both sides. I don't know who made the first move, but suddenly lips crashed together in a clash of tongue and teeth, the need for the feel of skin on skin. Pushing and pulling, something as simple as her desk would suffice. It wasn't soft, and we would both have bruises the next morning.

I first noticed a patten after we recruited Tali from Haestrom. She accused me of being reckless, I accused her of refusing to follow orders. What started as playful banter between crew mates soon escalated. I chose to be the bigger person and walk away, back to my cabin and away from her. It couldn't have been more than ten minuets and she was there, arms folded, waiting for the retort.

I sat at my desk, a half empty bottle of Jack sitting on the shelf beside old photographs and even older memories. The two fingers left in the glass to my right a testament to the difficulty I was having with old wounds.

"I'm not in the mood for this ..." It's a lousy opening, but I don't have the energy for anything else.

"Mood for what exactly?" Her smooth accent cut through the recycled air, "We were having a discussion about your blatant disregard for personal ..."

"My disregard?" I've raised my voice now, and suddenly I am standing. The previous anger has returned and even Thomas Jefferson's theories on counting to one hundred couldn't help me. "You disobeyed a direct order given from your superior officer."

"I can disregard an order if it will put the life of myself, or other squad members, at risk ..."

"Bullshit. You choose to disregard orders when it damn well suits you."

"My following orders actually has nothing to do with this, I'm here about your lack of consideration for your own personal safety. You have to understand the immense cost and risk Cerburus took in rebuilding you and if you die ..."

I've drowned out the noise by now focusing on not lashing out, not striking out at her physically but she kept going, kept talking. Suddenly my glass was in my hand, and then it was hurled through the air before it smashed against the wall nearest the fist tank. Blood pounded through my ears, breath coming quick and fast from my lungs. It was mercifully silent.

I felt a hand on my arm, a small gesture of comfort but it was too little too late.

I tensed like coiled spring and before she had said anything further, my weight pinned her to the wall, right arm jammed under her jaw, left hand pinning her ribs through the fabric of her white cat suit.

I have never before seen Miranda Lawson afraid, but she was scared then, whether of me or of what I could do, I don't know.

It came then; the realisation, the embarrassment, the post-crisis depression. I removed my hand, afraid that this would be an end to it, that she would leave at the next available opportunity or that she would shut down and rebuild the ice walls she had surrounded herself with. But I was wrong, she saw my weakness, my hesitation and used it against me, spinning us around so that my back was to the wall. Not stopping there she used her momentum, hooking her left leg behind my right and pushing me to the floor. It wasn't as clean a manoeuvre as she and hopped and I pulled her down with me, the grated floor biting into my back.

We struggled there, each trying to find purchase in the others defence. It ended with her weight resting on her right knee which pressed into the soft part of my chest, just below my sternum, while I grasped her wrists above my head in one hand, the other wrapped around her ribs, prepared to break from both sides.

Our faces were very close, close enough for breath to mix. Again, I don't know who made the first move but suddenly our lips were together, mouths working to feel, to taste, to explore. Hands that once held wrists, tracked down tracing arm, shoulder and back muscles before burying itself in raven hair. Knees that pressed into solar plexus slid sideways, allowing even weight distribution across thighs and legs.

Soon I lost coherent thought, absorbed in the task of loosing myself in smell, touch and taste. My shirt was pulled roughly over my head and cold floor met sweat beaded skin. Miranda's cat suit swiftly followed and nails dug into flesh, anger turning into abuse of our partners body. Her nails scratched my back, my arms, my chest; my teeth found her bottom lip and bit down, blood spilling and mixing in our mouths.

I threw her off me then, with an animal rage, pinning her to the floor before she had time to register the pain. Hands groped at belt buckles as she worked to remove the last few barriers of cloth and cotton. Skin was pulled, gripped and panting was the only sound. Moans and gasps came next, as she wrapped one arm around my neck, using the other to brace against the wall behind her head.

After, the was the realisation of what we had done, again the embarrassment, again the post-crisis depression. I rolled away, letting the cool metal sooth the burning left by her scratches. We didn't speak; we never spoke, but there was a mutual understanding, a forgiveness, an apology. It hung in the air, never being voiced, but there all the same.

We never made love. But we had damn good make-up sex.


End file.
